Sanglant
by Mondie
Summary: happy snitch week! mondie’s contribution. rated for slash, present-dayness, violence, language, and newsie death. songfic: good charlotte’s ‘my bloody valentine’.


**[sanglant]**

**[by mondie]**

**[started: April 9, 2003]**

**[disclaimer: Violent, blood-covered Snitch belongs to Lute. He's on loan from her story "I Killed Her"—go read if you haven't. Song belongs to Good Charlotte. Actual characters of Snitch and Skittery and David belong to Disney. Writing technique, or lack thereof, is the only thing Mondie owns, and she'll gladly rent it out for fifty cents per week.]**

[summary: happy snitch week! mondie's contribution. rated for slash, present-dayness, violence, language, and newsie deaths. songfic: good charlotte's 'my bloody valentine'.]

[author's note: I'm not all that certain that this is how others perceive Snitch. I just have always viewed him in my mind as a graceful fall from aristocracy. Not that he falls from aristocracy in this story, but like in newsies. He just seems to have a weird eloquence about him that I can't describe. And this story, for some reason, seems very Christian Bale as Patrick Bateman. -_-;; Anyhow, I apologize if anyone's offended. Pre-offense apology. You can't get any better than that.]

[The title is French for "bloody".]

**:**

            Skittery's hands are always warm.

            Maybe he's got a bigger heart than me, maybe just more veins in his fingertips. But it's the first real thing I noticed about him, and it's what made me fall in love with him, too. My hands are always cold. But Skittery? Whether the source is flames from hell or radiant sunshine from heaven, he's always warm.

            Two snobby boys from the Upper East Side, I've always been pretty sure we were created for each other. We know we're rich, we know we're spoiled, and, really, we leave it at that. He's got soft hair that falls into his eyes just right, and those scowling eyes that try to hide his vulnerability. Sometimes he lets me see his weak side. But then he usually ignores me for a week afterwards. He's so funny like that. God, I love him.

            One day we were walking side-by-side through the school hallways. We go to a private, boys-only secondary school fairly close to our apartment buildings. It's the sort of school that only kids with money get into, the sort of school where everyone knows that, upon graduation, we will be split only as far as one Ivy League school's distance from the next. We have to wear uniforms, of course, navy blazers with khaki pants and white button-down shirts with navy neckties. Skittery had his top two buttons undone, the knot on his tie loosed comfortably. He is the only person I know who can shuffle sexily in loafers. He is by far the most laid-back person in the school, and I could see roughly half of the boys in the hallway eyeing the pair of us, but particularly him. Though in public eyes we're nothing more than close friends, I know for a fact that over half of our classmates are gay as well, and I also know that Skittery is the apple of many eyes. It's one of those things that we as a school don't discuss, though. Undoubtedly most of our own fathers are just as controversial, but society insists upon keeping such things quite hush-hush.

            I was pondering to myself over whether it would be too shocking for me to reach over and slide my ice hand into Skittery's heat-filled one when I felt eyes staring me down. Turning sharply to my right, I caught only a glimpse of startlingly blue eyes and a head of curly brown hair before the person disappeared. I rolled my eyes and clapped my hand onto Skittery's shoulder with as much of an air of masculinity as I could manage. "Skittery," I whined, and just a little of me melted when he turned those beautiful gray eyes to my face. "That Davey kid is staring at us again."

            A little smirk played at the corner of his lips, a smirk I didn't recognize or understand. "Don't worry about him, Snitch," he answered.

            To avoid a potentially embarrassing scene, I grabbed hold of his arm and tugged him off to the side of the hallway, next to the lockers. A few of our fellow classmates, being in the category of actually-gay-but-hiding-it, yelled out catcalls at us. Skittery's ears turned pink, and he looked slightly irked at me. I didn't really care to notice, however, as I shifted my backpack to my other arm and nervously danced from foot to foot. "Don't tell me that you're seeing him, Skitts," I said, hoping my voice seemed made of steel and not wavering like my fluttering heart.

            Skittery shrugged, the perfect picture of indifference. I looked at the way his khakis were impeccably pleated, how his hair was tousled just right. It nearly broke my heart. I'm sure it showed in my face, because for a minute, he reached out an arm and rested it on my shoulder. Skittery hardly ever touches anyone in public.

            "Why, Skitts?" I asked, a bit breathlessly. My face was scrunched up in an attempt not to cry. I rolled my shoulder so that his arm slid off, and hugged my arms to my chest. "How could you?" It wasn't merely the fact that Skittery was so blatantly cheating on me, but combined with the fact that David Jacobs is so dreadfully atrocious. The boy is _poor_, here on scholarship for his outstanding scores at one of the public schools. His khakis are always stained, his shirt is never straight, his tie is either not tied or forgotten at home, and his only blazer has a sleeve missing. His shoes are the most disgusting, wretched Converse sneakers known to man. And if he has a hairbrush, someone needs to inform him of how to use it properly.

            Skittery couldn't find words to justify himself, and the bell rang just then anyhow. The hallways quickly emptied, various boys dashing into classrooms. Finding us, for once, alone, Skittery leaned down and swiftly brushed his lips against mine. "See you after school," he said over his shoulder, and strode off to his last class of the day, physical education, tossing his head so that his hair fell teasingly against the back of his neck.

            I didn't go to my last class. Instead, I calmly walked to my locker, threw my belongings into it, and trudged out the door. I didn't know exactly where I was going, only that I wouldn't meet Skittery after school that day.

            But, unbeknownst to me, someone else would.

**:**

            I didn't know about their after-school rendezvous until later that night. I was forlorn and filled with anxiety over the fact that Skittery hadn't called me after school demanding an explanation for my absence, as I would have reacted in a reverse situation. Also, my father had just bought me a new BMW, and, though I didn't have a license to drive it, I had decided to drive it over anyway. It's not as if I would get in trouble if I was caught, anyhow. My father was once friends with the chief of police. The doorman had called up to Skittery's penthouse suite, so like the one my family owns a block down, and informed me that no one was in. So now I sat idly by, tapping my hand on my steering wheel to the dull chaos of a song currently blaring on the expensive sound system. It wasn't long before the atrocious roar of another vehicle pulling up in front of my car startled me into observance.

            The jalopy—for there was no other word for such a beastly car—was spewing and sputtering dark clouds of exhaust high into the sky. Through the grime-covered back window, I could just make out the outline of two boys embracing, then kissing. I rolled my eyes in impatience, waiting for them to stop so I could properly accost Skittery upon his flouncing entrance to his building. Five more minutes passed, and I tried my hardest to focus on the doorman, who was trying his hardest not to stare openly at the scene in the junky car. Finally, with a creak of rust and metal, loud enough to halt the entirety of New York City in its tracks, the passenger door opened and Skittery pulled his long, gangly body from the vehicle. Even though his cheeks were flushed and his breathing seemed a bit labored, he was still the complete picture of serenity. Now was my moment, my time to jump out of the car and angrily confront Skittery. But as Davey's car lurhced away from the curb, I found myself pulling out after him, leaving Skittery, the doorman, and the building far behind.

            The words of the impossibly loud rap song playing through my speakers were harsh and violent, and only seemed to fuel my pain. Twilight began to set, and still we were driving, me at such a distance as to keep up with him but not to be obvious. I had never before realized just how far out the scholarship kids must live. Finally we arrived in a part of the city I'd never even visited before. I was reminded instantly of Disney World and how many different theme parks make up the larger one, just like how the different boroughs of New York City make up the entire city. However, all of the theme parks at Disney World are enjoyable. This place, this homestead of Davey's, was not pleasurable at all.

            It was a rickety building, built sometime before the Civil War, I'm sure. Hungry cats yowled in alleyways while men in soiled wifebeaters and darkly-stained corduroys trudged past, the scent of cheap liquor already heavy on their breaths. Babies were crying in every direction, and Davey checked all the locks on his car doors carefully before going up to the building. I followed stealthily, and watched him pick up his family's mail in the lobby, cheerfully greeting the receptionist, a bored-looking woman named Ethel who was wearing fake pearls and pleather shoes. I noticed the box he grabbed the letters from. He lived in apartment 3C. I went back outside, threatened the punks who were admiring my car a little too closely for my liking, and waited for night to fall.

            One good thing about the building being old was that the fire escape was also old. It was only too easy for me to hoist myself onto it, and since Davey merely lived on the third floor, it was practically an effortless endeavor. I figured out which apartment 3C would be, and crouched outside a window. Luck was on my side, for when light flooded out, I peered in to see David undressing for bed.

            I suddenly noticed what a nice body he had, which was undoubtedly what had caught Skittery's eye, too. But he was such a prick. He actually kneeled at his bedside, read a few Bible verses aloud, and prayed out his sins. I noticed that he didn't include the kissing with Skittery as a sin. An interesting point, I wagered, since nearly all the churchies I'd met thought homosexuality something which could only be punished by God Himself.

            He then clicked off his light, and climbed into his bed. The only light, besides the orange street lamps burning my back, were the green numbers on his alarm clock. His window was already open, to embrace the last rays of the warm day. If he heard me cutting the screen, he didn't stir. Practically before I knew it, I was inside his room. The scent of Skittery, the loud cologne that he so loves, was heavy in the air. It made me sick to my stomach. And Davey definitely knew I was in the room now, as I stumbled from the shock of smelling Skitts in the air.

            He fumbled for the light, but I pulled the cord out of the wall. It didn't matter. The street lights were bright enough, anyhow. He squinted at me. "Skittery?" he tried, mistaking my height for that of my best friend, my lover.

            I was at the boiling point. I rushed at him, grabbing him around his throat. "Fucking asshole," I breathed, feeling the frantic thud of his heartbeat against my pressing fingertips.

            "Snitch!" he gasped, in a way that might have seemed completely melodramatic if he weren't unable to breathe.

            I released his throat and threw him back onto the bed, grabbing my knife from my belt. He stared at me in confusion, then an absurd look crossed his face. Denial. "You aren't gonna do that."

            I scrambled on top of him, pressing the knife firmly to his throat. "Oh, yeah?"

            Those goddamn blue eyes, blue eyes too blue to be real, stared at me. "Don't," he said simply. "Don't do it." His voice increased in volume and pitch. "Snitch! Don't!"

            "Pussy," I taunted, pressing the knife further into his throat. Hot blood began to seep around the thin blade, and the panicked look in his eyes raised to a crescendo. Laughing, I leaned down and kissed his lips, as blood blossomed through them. Unresponsive lips. "I don't see how Skitts could stand kissing you," I laughed, pressing all the harder with the blade. Unspoken words tried to form in his mouth, but his lips were hardly moving now. All color had left his face, had refocused itself to the pooling blood of his throat. Then, with one final slash, his throat hung open, and I was gone out the window.

            The drive home was too long. I pulled out my cell phone, gripping it tightly because the slippery blood covering my hands and now the steering wheel made it hard to clutch, and called Skittery. I began babbling. I told him I had seen him and Davey, and it had driven me mad. He didn't seem to believe me. I hung up the phone in anger and stopped at his house. I hid my blood-soaked hands from the doorman and the people in the lobby and the elevator operator, who pressed the button for the penthouse for me. I knocked crazily upon Skittery's family's door, not with my hands, but with my elbow and my shoulder, throwing myself against it repeatedly in a half-crazed state. Skittery finally opened the door and stared at me in disbelief. I held out my red hands to him. "See?" I shouted. "See?" Then I pulled him to me, and ran my blood-covered hands through his hair as my lips caressed his. Blood caught in that soft hair, smudged brick-colored fingerprints freckled his cheeks. The whole time, he was just staring back at me, in shock.

            I reached down and took his hands in mine.

            But they were no longer warm.

            Skittery's hands were now chiseled from ice.

**:**

_Oh my love, please don't cry  
I'll wash my bloody hands and we'll start a new life_

_I ripped out his throat  
And called you on the telephone to take off my disguise  
Just in time to hear you cry  
When you, you mourn the death of your bloody valentine  
The night he died  
You mourned the death of your bloody valentine  
One last time_

_Singing oh my love, please don't cry  
I'll wash my bloody hands and we'll start a new life  
I don't know much at all, I don't know wrong from right  
All I know is that I love you tonight_

_There was police and flashing lights  
The rain came down so hard that night and the  
Headlines read 'A Lover Died'  
No tell-tale heart was left to find  
When you, you mourn the death of your bloody valentine  
The night he died  
You mourned the death of your bloody valentine  
One last time_

_Singing oh my love, please don't cry  
I'll wash my bloody hands and we'll start a new life  
I don't know much at all, I don't know wrong from right  
All I know is that I love you tonight_

_Tonight…_

_He dropped you off; I followed him home  
Then I stood outside his bedroom window  
Standing over him, he begged me not to do  
What I knew I had to do 'cause I'm so in love with you_

_Oh my love, please don't cry  
I'll wash my bloody hands and we'll start a new life  
I don't know much at all, I don't know wrong from right  
All I know is that I love you tonight_

_Tonight_

**My Bloody Valentine : Good Charlotte**


End file.
